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By the third glass of champagne, Ciel was making a mistake. He knew it the way he knew a losing position on a chessboard. Too late to undo but too obvious to ignore. The warmth loosened something behind his ribs, softened the sharp edge he usually kept honed for rooms like this. It was why he avoided drinking in public. It was why Sebastian’s eyes had followed him earlier with quiet wariness. And it was why Sieglinde was laughing at him.
“Your face,” she said, delighted. “You look offended.”
“I’m offended by you,” Ciel replied, dry but not unkind. “You encouraged this.”
She lifted her glass in mock solemnity. “I encouraged you to relax. That you chose excess is not my fault.”
Her English had become annoyingly good. She still had an accent. He almost missed when she pretended not to understand him to watch him struggle. They stood too close. They always did. It has become a problem.
The ballroom buzzed with conversation and curiosity. He could feel it; their eyes were tracking him. A young earl, unattached. Dangerous in every sense. Women smiled too brightly. Men watched with calculation. Somewhere nearby, a young noble laughed a little too hard at something Sieglinde had said earlier, his gaze lingering. Ciel did not look at him again. Sieglinde did.
“Oh,” she murmured, leaning toward Ciel, lips near his ear. “He is staring.”
“I noticed.”
“He thinks I am interesting.”
Ciel took a slow sip of his drink. “You are interesting.”
Her mouth twitched. “You sound annoyed.”
She slipped her arm through his, casually as a habit. The gesture drew immediate attention; Ciel felt it like a prickle under his skin.
“You do this on purpose,” he muttered.
“Yes.”
His gaze dropped—lace framing her wrists, the dark hair she insisted on keeping long despite every suggestion otherwise. Someone had once told her it looked impractical. She’d laughed and grown it longer out of spite.
“I love your hair,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “You said last month it looked like a rat nest.”
“I was tired.”
“You said you hated it.”
“I was in a foul mood.”
She studied him, emerald eyes bright with something unreadable. “You only say kind things when you drink.”
Ciel stiffened. Then, quieter, “I promise I think them when I’m sober.”
That shut her up for once.
They tried to escape the ballroom, not long after an unspoken agreement had become dangerous. Sieglinde slipped away first. Ciel was delayed again, intercepted by other guests. The terrace garden was cool, the air sharp enough to clear his head a little. Lantern light caught in the embroidery of her dress as she leaned against the stone railing, skirts brushing his leg when he came to stand beside her. Her gloves lay forgotten on the balustrade. He found her the way he always did, as if the night belonged to her. When she sensed him, she smiled.
“You are late,” she said. “I thought perhaps you were kidnapped by English women again.”
“They try. None has succeeded.”
“That is because you look like you would bite them.”
“I would,” he replied. “Politely.”
She laughed and patted the stone beside her. He took the invitation without thinking, sitting close enough that their sleeves brushed. He didn’t move away. They never did. Her fingers found one of his rings. The sapphire caught the light as she turned it absently. He didn’t stop her. His breath hitched, just once.
“Sieglinde,” he said as a warning and soft all at once.
“Yes, best friend?”
The word struck deeper than it should have.
Her shoulder nudged his arm. “You do not smile enough.”
“I smile when it’s warranted.”
“That is a terrible way to live.”
She caught the chain of his watch, tracing the edge of his waistcoat with idle familiarity. He inhaled sharply through his nose.
“You only say things like this when you are tired,” he said.
“And you only admit things when you are angry or drunk,” she countered. “We all have flaws.”
“You drive me half insane,” he said.
She smiled, pleased. “Only half?”
“A universe without you,” he continued, voice low, “would be unbearably dull.”
Her teasing faltered. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Someone stepped onto the terrace, pausing when they realized they weren’t alone. It was the same young lord. Jealousy flared and was unwelcome.
Ciel leaned closer to Sieglinde, deliberately. “You are aware everyone thinks we’re lying.”
“About being only friends?” she asked, glancing back before meeting his eyes again.
“Yes.”
She stepped into his space, close enough to invite scandal if anyone looked too carefully. Her hand slid up his chest and stopped just short of impropriety. His heart thudded, loud and traitorous.
“I have never tolerated someone for so long,” she said quietly.
Something warm settled in his chest.
“Sieglinde,” he said quietly, “there is something I’ve been meaning to—”
She tilted her head. “Hm?”
He hesitated. Pride warred with vulnerability, as it always did. He felt absurdly young in that moment, despite his height, his titles, their age gap, and the weight of expectation. He exhaled.
“I would like to ask you something. Properly.”
Her expression flickered with sparking mischief, and then she blinked, wide-eyed.
“Ah?” she said suddenly, brightly. “Ich… spreche kein Englisch.”
He stared at her.
“You absolutely do.”
She smiled sweetly and continued rapidly in German, gesturing vaguely. Ciel closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You are impossible.”
“But you are improving,” she teased.
He opened his eyes again, gaze steady this time, and switched languages. His accent is unmistakable, imperfect, but earnest.
“Fräulein Sullivan,” he said, his voice lower than before, “würden Sie mir erlauben, um Sie zu werben?”
Her teasing vanished. For a heartbeat, she only looked at him. Then her cheeks flushed and she laughed softly, delighted. Her hand tightened in his.
“Oh,” she said in English again. “You should have said so sooner.”
“I needed the right moment.”
“This is not the right moment,” she replied, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. “It is a very dangerous one.”
“Then I’ll risk it.”
She kissed him. It was brief, warm, entirely improper, but then pulled back just enough to smile.
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